


if life should have a name, let it be yours

by FanaticismForWords



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Avengers, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Tony Stark Has A Heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanaticismForWords/pseuds/FanaticismForWords
Summary: Steve Rogers falls in love with Tony Stark one creation at a time.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Steve Rogers & Avengers Team, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 10
Kudos: 184





	if life should have a name, let it be yours

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this between study breaks running on almost no sleep so I apologize for any errors and please feel free to kindly inform me of my errors in the comments.   
> Happy reading to you.

They say grief is blinding. They say that loss sucks out the light from the world. And Steve Rogers – well, Steve Rogers has decades worth of grief etched into his still-thawing heart and loss tattooed on his forehead. Closing his eyes for a second too long means he’s back in the Valkyrie, falling into the cold, and opening them means he’s stuck in this world; this world of uncaring people and tall buildings and bright lights.

Steve Rogers has decades worth of grief etched into his still-thawing heart and loss tattooed on his forehead and perhaps that is why, when Tony Stark’s Iron Man descends with chaos outside a museum in Germany, all too flashy colors, and too loud machinery, and emotionless faceplate and weapons and destruction, it reminds him of everything wrong with this century.

He meets the man behind the mask and is disappointed at how far he falls – incomparable to the pure energy that was Howard Stark, the goodness that was Peggy Carter, the selflessness that was Bucky Barnes. Tony Stark is crass humour and snarky nonchalance and scratching at wounds without any regard for feelings and impulsive brashness that could cost many lives.

Tony Stark, Steve Rogers decides, is everything he hates about the future. 

...Right up until the idiot – the self-sacrificial _moron_ – decides to carry a nuke up to space and force him to call out the order that closes the portal and traps the man that presses his every button, scratches his every nerve but was the first person to stare at him without pity and look at him as if he was not helpless in this new world.

But then somehow there’s a red and gold blur in the sky and Steve doesn’t even know why he’s surprised; this was the man that built some kind of revolutionary technology along with a prototype Iron Man suit in a cave with nearly nothing.

 _The suit isn’t right_ , he thinks, and is momentarily confused because this suit is everything that the one in Germany wasn’t. The red and gold is no longer flashy and bright but rather scratched and marked and dirtied and the loud whirring that induced annoyance has disappeared and left behind silence. The faceplate is thrown away somewhere and exposes Tony Stark’s bleeding bruised face; eyes closed and mouth shut and they’ve won, but the world seems _more_ wrong than it was when Loki was still unleashing aliens on their planet.

Then the light that’s the arc reactor flickers back into existence and is followed by Stark’s gasp of breath and his eyes, auburn and gold and everything in between, snap open and suddenly there’s life in the empty street paved with destruction and everything seems right in his world for a moment as Tony Stark, with the suit that’s coloured red and gold like a phoenix, and an arc reactor that shouts _life,_ and mechanical whir that fills the deathly silence, takes in a lungful of air and says,

“Please tell me no one kissed me.”

For a moment, Steve Rogers thinks that maybe this world isn’t so bad after all.

He agrees to live in the Tower, Tony Stark’s Tower, without much persuasion. After the stunt SHIELD pulled with the weapons and the Tesseract and their poor handling of his awakening from the ice, he doesn’t think he’d fare well being in the presence of the organization for too long.

Besides, everything –everyone – he likes in this century resides in the large building that shoots above all of Manhattan; Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Thor Odinson.

Maybe Tony Stark.

As per Stark’s instructions, delivered to him via text on his new Stark Phone, he gets into the elevator and waits, his awkward shifting the only indication of the nerves crawling up his spine and gathering in the pits of his stomach.

The voice jars him like no other, and the instinct that’s been nurtured into him ever since Wars and Erskine and Hydra that screams _fight_ and _threat_ and _attack,_ flares to life even though there is clearly no one but himself and his poor excuse for belongings in the elevator.

“Good Evening Captain Rogers,”

The voice pauses for a moment, as if registering his aggressive stance, and when it continues, Steve can swear he hears an amused, almost smug tone that accompanies the words.

“I am JARVIS, Mr. Stark’s AI. I have been directed to inform you that we will be making our way to the fiftieth floor where you will meet Sir.”

He hesitates, but only for a moment, Sarah Rogers still present in the large part of him that is the sickly kid from Brooklyn, “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“My pleasure Captain Rogers. Welcome to Stark Tower.”

Tony’s waiting for him on the other side of the elevator doors, dressed to the nines in a suit that possibly cost more than an average paycheck, sunglasses perched on top carefully styled hair and nimble hands dancing over the thin phone screen.

Steve Rogers isn’t above admitting to himself –and himself only – that Tony Stark is attractive, stunning even. He’s more in awe of the fact that he is now allowed to have such thoughts, allowed to walk out and kiss a man, allowed to marry a man without getting arrested. Coulson had stuttered through the evolving of humanity’s societal views with flaming cheeks after being caught in the janitor closet with Clint Barton and Steve reassuring them that he’s not going to tell anyone.

Turns out, the world knows.

“Cap?”

Steve looks up from where he was pointedly staring at the tips of Stark’s shoes to the man looking at him with a closed-off posture and a slightly uncertain expression.

He tries to relax himself to encourage the other man to do the same but the truth is that there is too much hurt and scars and words that were hastily thrown and cannot be retracted meaning that more time is necessary before either of them heal.

After more shifting around uncomfortably in his spot, while Tony simply looks at his phone then at Steve before awkwardly switching back to his phone, Steve clears his throat and hopes that he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels, “Is there a place where I can put my bags?”

It gets Tony going. He pockets his phone and starts walking towards the elevators briskly. It's only when he starts speaking that Steve realizes that he’s expected to follow, “You’re on the forty-first floor.” The elevator doors close and slowly start to move while Stark still talks, “You’ve got a kitchen and a living room and two spare rooms excluding your bedroom. You can use them for whatever and Jarvis will help you with the decorating. Just ask him if you need anything.”

It seems like a good way to leave things off; pleasant and cordial with no room for an argument or tension and a hopeful prospect for their next meeting.

So Steve doesn’t quite understand why he’s reluctant to let Stark go, why he wants to keep the man that’s all motion and movement and wild gestures and lively stance around for just a little longer.

Against better reason, he blurts out the first thought that comes to mind before Tony can spin on his heels and fly away, or take out the phone from his pocket and leave this orbital, “Gym. Is there a gym?”

Stark stares at him intently and the way brown eyes bore at him as if they can see right through him makes Steve wonder if this whole thing was a bad idea, if he should have just stayed in SHIELD.

But then Stark grins a grin that is a small upturn of one corner of his lips and only visible because Steve looks for it and says, “Ya. Sure. Gyms there. I'm housing a bunch of beefed-up Neanderthals, of course, I would put in a gym. Gyms on the forty-ninth floor. We can go there right now. Coulson mentioned your tendency of breaking punching bags so I designed some of my own,” Steve feels a blush travel up his spine and, judging by the way the smirk on his face widens, it doesn’t get past Tony, “Let’s go test out which is stronger, my brain or your brawn.”

He’s practically bouncing on his heels at this point and Steve finds that he couldn’t refuse Tony Stark even if he wanted to. So he nods and ignores the bubbles in his stomach when the corners of the other man’s lips tip up just a little higher and he shouts into thin air, “Jarvis, tell Pepper that the old douche bags are going to have to keep it in their pants for a little longer.”

The AI’s response is immediate and not at all what Steve expected, “Of course Sir, I shall relay to Ms. Potts that you are experiencing a delay due to Captain Rogers needing your assistance and that you offer your sincere apologies for your unpunctuality.”

Tony scoffs, “She’ll never believe that.”

“She might not Sir, but she’ll appreciate the politeness when I'm informing her of your absence in the board room where she now sits with the investors and you might avoid getting a stiletto thrown at your head later.”

Before Tony can articulate an entertaining, but probably inappropriate response, Steve interrupts, “If you have work to do, I'm sure I can do this on my own. I don't mean to create problems.”

Tony’s eyes hit the heavens before piercing him again, “You never do Rogers.” Steve feels his spine stiffen slightly and he’s about to retort with something that could potentially ruin this whole thing but Tony keeps going, “Besides, all they want to talk about is how we could make more money than we already are and it's not as if they don't know I'm playing candy crush under the table.”

“They don't Sir,” Jarvis’ voice infiltrates the large gym they just walked into, and Steve lets go of the notion that the AI only spoke when spoke to, “According to conversations had subsequent to investment meetings, they are very much under the impression that you are entertaining yourself with pornography.”

Tony stops in his quiet murmurings of the gym equipment that Steve secretly itches to use and gasps in a theatrical mock outrage, “And you never told me, J?”

Jarvis doesn’t miss a beat, “I thought the meeting would go much better if I didn't and aforementioned pornography didn’t show its way to the holograms that projected statistics.”

“Why did I even build you if you’re going to withdraw information?” Tony grumbles with no malice.

“I believe my purpose was to make sure you don't run your life to the ground, according to Colonel Rhodes. Also, Sir, Ms. Potts is attempting to reach you.”

The muffled curse isn’t quiet enough for Steve to miss and Tony gives him a distracted excuse and full reign to do whatever and go wherever and ask Jarvis if he needs anything before he’s running out of the largest gym that Steve’s ever seen his tone placating as he speaks to Pepper Potts over the phone, “Pepper, light of my life, holder of my...”

Without Tony Stark, the room feels empty, dead. As if the man had taken all the life in the room when he walked out and left Steve with this unbearable silence that reminds him too much of ice and cold and frozen.

The name falls off his lips involuntarily and he doesn’t realize his eyes are closed until his voice fills the silence, throaty and ragged, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers.”

“Tony created you.” It's more a statement than a question, but Steve figures that Tony Stark would have created an AI with the capabilities of reading between the lines and Jarvis doesn’t disappoint.

“That is correct Mr. Rogers, I manage every aspect of Mr. Stark’s life including when he is in the Iron Man suit.”

He scans the large expanse of a gym and makes his way to the punching bags, all six hanging at a reasonable distance from one another next to the weights, “So you help us as well.”

“To some extent, yes. My primary purpose is to my creator and my only priority is keeping Sir safe.”

Steve balls his hands into fists and tries a go at the sandbag that seems to be allocated for him, judging by the blues and whites and ‘Capsicle’ written in big bold letters, “Jarvis, where can I get tape?”

“The tape is located on the shelf behind you Captain, and the extra sandbag is located in the storage room to your right where you will also find one of many first aid kits.”

He stares up at the ceiling then, listening to this voice that was created by a man once known as the Merchant of Death; this voice, this artificial _machine_ made of nothing but algorithms that is somehow capable of sarcasm, capable of kindness and humour and caring and his fists start to loosen.

He has no rage in him to punch the sandbag, no anger that will result in a maniac trance of punch and hit and destroy and he finds himself leaving the gym and getting back into the elevator, calling the name without hesitance this time, “Jarvis.”

He doesn’t stop to wonder as he spends his days asking and questioning and conversing with the AI, that if the reason why he likes the AI so much has less to do with the fact that this was the kind of future that Howard Stark used to imagine and more to do with the fact that the AI is so _Tony_ , with its bursts of sarcasm and attempt at crass humour and its ease in calling out Steve’s bullshit.

He doesn’t stop to wonder if that means that he likes Tony Stark more than he thinks he does.

It takes the Avengers very little time to get used to living with each other. They’ve got the kind of shared trauma that binds them together regardless of space and time and they all ease into living in the same tower with surprising amounts of elegance, seamlessly fitting each other into their lives as if they have been doing it forever.

Movie nights become a regular thing with Clint and Coulson stuck together on the loveseat, Thor and Bruce comfortably sitting next to each other on the two cushioned sofa on the opposite side and Tony, Steve and Natasha occupying the large couch in the middle.

Movie nights are the Avengers drawing straws to decide who’s refilling the popcorn that runs out every ten minutes thanks to Steve, Thor and surprisingly Bruce. Movie nights are Clint falling asleep halfway and Bruce leaving before the end and Natasha painting her nails and Coulson diligently watching while Steve half watches the movie and half listens to Tony’s commentary.

(The boy from Brooklyn had made his appearance one night, what seems like eons ago, when he had snapped at Tony for ruining the film for everyone with his whispered jokes and unusual observations. The engineer had responded with a witty retort but remained silent for the remaining duration of the film. It wasn’t until Steve had asked a question the next time they had movie night that he realized that he actually enjoyed the fast rambles of Tony and his pacing mind.)

Meals are usually eaten at everyone’s own time and preference but one day of Colonel Rhodes walking into the tower while the rest of them sans Clint and Thor are lounging in the communal living room changes things.

“Jarvis, where’s Tony?” The Colonel had asked.

“Sir is currently in his workshop, Colonel.”

Rhodes had sighed like an impervious parent, asking Jarvis while making his way to the elevator, as if expecting the answer, “How long since he ate?”

“He had a granola bar approximately 19 hours ago.”

Moments later, Rhodes dragged in a protesting Tony Stark before watching him eat the Panini Clint had made an hour prior, before accompanying Tony back to his workshop.

The Avengers start eating together after that; occasionally going down to Tony’s lab if the engineer doesn’t come up within half an hour. So far, only Natasha and Bruce have had to drag Tony out of his work stupor; normally – or maybe abnormally – Tony has managed to make it to meals in time, even staying behind to fill the silence when Steve’s washing dishes before retreating back into his cave.

Today is not one of those days.

The genius hasn’t come out of his lab in hours, and it feels like days for Steve, who didn't realize he’s gotten used to – perhaps even fond – of the incoherent and incomprehensible babble that chases away the silence and fear and cold and the warmth of eyes that are never really brown.

“Intervention,” Natasha walks in while Bruce is putting finishing touches on his curry and holds three straws to Steve, Clint and Thor.

“Shortest straw has to get Tony out of the lab,” Clint says, putting down the video game and making his way towards his best friend.

And it irks Steve, creates a little, reparable pit in his stomach at the notion – the incorrect – notion of drawing straws as if seeing Tony, having Tony eat is comparable to doing laundry or taking out the trash.

And it’s this idea of looking out for your teammates, the responsibility he has as Captain and certainly not the exhilarating prospect of seeing Tony for the first time in hours, that prompts Steve to get up from his seat and make his way to the elevators, “No need, I’ll do it this time.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Natasha’s voice has a hint of something knowing and sly to it and if he didn't know better, he’d think that she expected this all along.

He doesn’t have time to contemplate the oddity of the situation in the kitchen because his ears are filled with the sounds of several instruments at once and, after Jarvis opens the doors for him, he’s thrust into the chaos and absolute beauty that is Tony Stark’s lab – Tony Stark’s _mind_ – for the very first time.

He’s surrounded by several holograms and the table at which he sits is a mess of coffee and metal pieces and wires and tools as if he was jumping between one project to another before settling on fixating on the large arm-like projection in the air.

Steve clears his throat and Tony whirls around in his chair, nearly falling off before righting himself.

His hair is a tousled mess, sticking at odd corners and Steve’s hands itch to simultaneously arrange it back into place and mess it up even more. The same sentiment goes to the smudge of what looks like engine oil slashing across the mechanic’s cheeks and the stream of grease staining his arms.

“Jesus, Spangles. We got to put a bell on you or something.”

He can feel the beginnings of a blush rise, not at what he hopes is the harmless teasing, but at the nature of his thoughts prior, he rubs the back of his neck where the heat is building up, “Sorry.”

Tony waves him away in customary disinterest, opting to refocus his attention back to the hologram that Steve knows for sure is an arm, “No harm right. You draw the short end of the stick?”

Steve’s brows furrow in confusion, “What?”

“Your little game of seeing who gets to rescue me from my dungeon.”

Before he can argue, set Tony straight and tell him that the team is only looking out for him, making sure that he eats, there’s a small tug on the back of his shirt, not at all rough but a little harsh.

The robot, equipped with only a long pole and a claw, hides behind Steve when Tony fixates a glare at it, “Dum-e, you tragedy. You absolute tragedy. What did we say about grabbing people’s shirts?”

The robot whirrs almost sadly and its claws point towards Steve, causing his lips to tick up at the apologetic manner in which the robot, Dum-e, moves around him. Steve pets the claw and is surprised to hear a series of happy beeps as a return.

“You built this?” Steve turns towards Tony with illogical admiration.

He’s seen the Iron Man suit and the Stark tower and a whole lot of Tony’s genius inventions including Jarvis, but this – Dum-e – this is a tangible item that is comparable to a child, more so when Tony ignores his hologram and addresses the bot.

“Come here you sack of bolts.”

Despite being the recipient of an insult, the bot whirrs happily to Tony, and Steve doesn’t miss the fond glint in the inventor’s eyes, the almost fatherly pride at the robot.

Tony grabs something from a drawer and places it on top of the bot’s claw, arranging it so that Steve can see the words hastily written on the plastic cone, “Cleaning Duty.”

Tony gestures away the holograms on top of the table with an articulated movement of his hand and focuses the attention that was previously on the robot at Steve. The smudge of engine oil on his cheeks and the grease staining his arms are still there and Steve supposes that this is part of what makes up Tony Stark; the man behind the crass humour and expensive glasses and tailored suits with a paparazzi smile.

This Tony Stark, fractionally more real, raises his brows, “Since your here, we might as well head up. No need to ruin everyone’s dinner and I'm sure you don't take losses well.”

The walk in tense silence to the elevator and it's only when the doors close and Tony’s workshop is obscured from view that Steve realizes that he has no need to pretend that he doesn’t care.

“I chose to get you, Tony,” The syllables of his name rolls off his tongue smoothly, as if this isn’t one of the very first times he’s saying it, “I was worried. We all were. You hadn’t come up for a long time and we just wanted you to eat. You need to take care of yourself, Tony.”

He looks away from their reflections on the glass doors of the elevator to Tony, whose eyes are a little wider, stance a little looser, mask a little more cracked and waits for something, anything. When nothing comes, Steve just turns back to face their reflections on the glass doors of the elevator, acutely aware of Tony’s hands unsteadily flailing around in small motions, incapable of staying still. The thought brings about a small tug in the back of his sternum he’d like to call affection.

“I built him when I was sixteen.” Tony’s voice cuts through the silence moments before they’re scheduled to get off the elevator and Steve stares at the man for clarification.

“DUM-E, I built him when I was sixteen. I was bored and a little lonely and I needed a helper bot so I got drunk and built him.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, mostly to himself, “Only you would be able to build a fully functioning robot when inebriated.”

The doors of the elevator have opened, waiting for them to pass through but they remain still, stuck in the little bubble created by broken facades and genuine conversation, “I'm not sure he’s what you would call fully functioning, but he’s friendly. Maybe I should make him into a greeter bot. Station him at SI.”

“You’d miss him though,” Steve notes softly, and with an undercurrent of certainty in his words that are based on a one-minute observation.

The corners of Tony’s eyes crinkle and Steve’s half tempted to run to his room and grab his sketchbook and pencil so he won’t forget the contours of Tony’s face when he’s nostalgically happy, “Ya, I guess I would. And then I’d have to go to SI every day to see him and Pepper will have a heart attack.”

“Steve. We’re hungry. You can flirt with Tony some other time.” Clint yells from the kitchen and the two of them become acutely aware of the situation.

Tony, without any indication of the past five minutes, stalks away into the communal kitchen, yelling back, “Awww, birdbrain. I'm flattered by your jealousy, you’re not really my type though.”

Steve, however, needs a minute to completely come to terms with the strange pounding in his chest and euphoric dance in his mind.

He should have known he was screwed right then.

Some nights are harder than others. Some nights, he’s back in the ice, cold water splashing through his lungs and Peggy’s voice crying out his name. Some nights, he’s back on top the train watching Bucky fall, his fingers just briefly brushing his best friend’s. Some nights it's Natasha, or Bruce or Clint or Thor. Most nights, it Tony.

Tonight is harder than most. Steve wakes up in cold sweat and a scream clogging his throat and a mental image of Bucky Barnes falling off the train and then Bucky Barnes turning into Tony Stark flying a missile into a wormhole – this time, however – he doesn’t make it back down.

He knows loss when he sees it, and he doesn’t try to chase the very little remnants of tired that’s creating the beginnings of a headache. Instead, he takes the elevator to the communal floor, acutely picturing the bucket of apples Natasha bought yesterday and the words on his grandmother’s apple pie recipe. He might as well make Natasha happy tomorrow morning.

He stops in his pursuit for the kitchen when he hears the undeniable sound of metal on metal and it should be concerning, his blatant unconcern at the suspicious sound coming from the kitchen at three in the morning but Tony’s tech is secure enough to keep out SHIELD despite the constant efforts to get in; he doubts anyone could get in without Tony knowing.

And perhaps it's because the engineer has been on his mind ever since he woke up, perhaps it's because the engineer has been on his mind quite a lot nowadays but it takes Steve a moment to gather that Tony Stark sitting on the floor of the communal kitchen – pieces of what used to be the microwave and toaster surrounding him on the floor, scattered in a disorganized mess that makes sense to no one but the genius – is not his imagination.

Tony’s almost manically taking apart the already fragmented pieces and Steve is disconcerted to find that he wouldn’t mind staring for the rest of the night, except that there’s a tired slump to Tony’s shoulders and prominent lines under his eyes and a hollow to his cheek and Steve walks further into the kitchen and kicks at a straying piece of metal to get Tony’s attention.

“Capsicle, it’s ass-o-clock in the morning. Shouldn’t you be getting your nine hours now?”

“Shouldn’t you,” Steve retorts, even though there’s no fight in the words.

“Sleep is for losers Cap. I have better things to do.” Tony’s words would have had more bite if not for the absent-minded way he’s rubbing the reactor, and Steve knows enough about the device to keep quiet.

Instead, he gestures to the loose piece of metal scattered across the marble floor, “And breaking apart Thor’s pop tart heater is better than sleep.”

Tony wrinkles his nose in a manner that shouldn’t be as adorable as it is, “I’m upgrading it, Cap.”

Steve nods curtly and then walks into the living room, finding the black Moleskine and the pencil from where he previously left it, before making his way to sit on the kitchen island, sending a small smile to Tony who looks at him curiously before scratching a thin line of black on white.

“What you doing up Cap?’ Tony asks softly, concerning bleeding through the words without explicit permission.

“Sleep is for losers Stark,” Steve responds without looking up from where he’s drawing the ticks of hair that make up Tony’s goatee, the precise shape that’s precariously trimmed daily. 

He regrets not looking when he hears an amused huff of laughter and the two fall into the comfortable silence that’s slowly becoming their new normal despite the fact that it puts the fear of God into Steve.

Moments later, as he’s finishing up the careful curls of the lashes above Tony’s eyes, and he hears the hundredth yawn this last minute, he puts down the sketchbook and makes his way back to Tony Stark, who’s now holding two pieces of metal and staring at them as if they contain the answers to the universe.

“Bedtime, Stark.”

Tony waves him off but it comes off half-hearted and not anywhere near stubborn, “M’fine Capsicle. Find someone else to mother.”

Steve, with a stubbornness that could rival Stark’s, persists, “You’re on the verge of collapsing Tony. Go to bed.”

“I’ve done worse Cap, don’t worry about me.”

But he does. Steve worries about Tony so much its seems too unhealthy, too obsessive. He pretends he doesn’t, but Steve sees the too long hours Tony puts on new widow bites for Natasha, or a new shield for him. Steve knows that Tony is the one that receives the fallout from a mission gone wrong or has to calm the public when the Hulk smashes an extra building. Steve knows that Tony carries the weight of the world on his shoulder and hides it with sass and snark and Steve cannot do anything but worry, and discretely add an extra set of hands and make sure Tony’s eating and sleeping.

He places a hand on Tony’s shoulder, soft and gentle because the man deserves nothing less and ignores the tingling that’s slowly working its way to his spine, tugging Tony until he’s on his feet and barely a breath away.

“You need to sleep Tony.” There’s a flash of pain and brokenness and exhaustion at Steve’s soft words and all he wants to do is hold Tony until he lets Steve help him pick up his pieces and glue them back together again.

“I can’t” The words are a harsh whisper in the quiet of the night with only the moon as a witness and Steve is too pained at Tony’s admission to bother feeling surprised at his sudden urge to kiss the pain away.

Instead, he tugs on his arm and propels him forward, making a silent ascend into Tony’s floor and carefully maneuvering the engineer into his room and onto his bed. He lies there, stiff and tense and Steve knows that as soon as he’s gone, Tony will make his way into the workshop where he will play loud music and fix up a car until he needs to go to work tomorrow morning.

And so, in a sudden, almost uncharacteristic feat of bravery, Steve sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that Tony’s pinky can touch his knees and speaks in a quiet tone, unsure if Tony is coherent enough to listen, “I dream about Bucky sometimes. He’s falling and I can’t catch him and then he’s gone but he looks so betrayed every time, so disappointed and I should have caught him but I didn’t.”

He’s met with silence but he keeps going, “Sometimes I see you,” The sharp gasp that comes from his right is only audible because of the serum, “Sometimes I see you flying into space and never coming down. Sometimes I see Tasha or Clint with holes in their head and sometimes I’m back in the ice and everyone’s calling out my name but I can’t answer because I can’t breathe. And it’s too quiet and too dark and I can’t sleep.”

The silence is mocking him, scratching at the wounds he’s opened and trying to draw blood so Steve rises from the bed and squints to find the little sliver of light under Tony’s door.

“I dream about the cave,” Tony says before he can take another step, in a voice so soft and so vulnerable and Steve wants to move or do something but he can’t and so he just stays still.

“Some days I dream about Obie trying to rip the reactor off, some days it’s the hole in space. Sometimes it's my dad.”

The admission loosens the tension out of Steve, and the remnants of sleep that he’s been chasing for the past few hours hits him in full force and he cannot control the yawn that forces its way up his throat.

This time, Tony laughs and Steve can hear the drowsy in his voice too, “Goodnight, Steve.”

He’s out the second his head hits the pillow and he only gets an hour but he counts his wins and tallies up his losses and counts last night as a success.

Thor’s watching Bruce flip pancakes in the kitchen when he comes down and Barton is swooning over the new toaster that butters the bread and spreads the cheese and Steve has to grin and remember with pride and fondness at the scrambled pieces of metal and energy that was Tony Stark sitting in the middle.

He only returns to his room after the sun goes down and he’s signed forms, trained with Natasha, attended three debriefs. He opens the door with the kind of resolve that crumples as soon as he steps foot into the plain area because he knows sleep is a losing battle.

Still, he gets under the covers and stares at the dark ceiling as he does until boredom becomes too much for him and he’ll walk around this massive building for hours until he tires and falls asleep on the couch and wakes up an hour later.

His defences go up like steel bars when the room lights up in a dim colour that’s a cross between red and gold and although a part of him appreciates the escape from the darkness, he still unscrambles his brain to reach for his Starkphone to call for an assemble when Jarvis’ voice filters through the speaker system Tony set up, “Lullaby Protocol Engaged.”

The sound is faint and barely there and it would have been easy to ignore suppose the serum didn't run through his veins but the serum does and he can hear the soft pitter-patter of rain the way it used to when he was a kid and would fall asleep on Bucky’s shoulder waiting for his ma to come home.

And the nightmares don’t stop but when he wakes, it's to the sound of rain that reminds him of the good he had in his past life and the red and gold that’s supposed to remind him of sunset, according to Jarvis, but just reminds him of Tony. The nightmares don't stop but he wakes to the sound of his ma and the colours of Tony and he falls back asleep much easier.

In the end, it takes nearly losing Tony for him to realize it. They’re called to assemble when large flying insects start breaking things in Manhattan. Steve assigns himself, Clint and Natasha to herd the people into a safe space while the Hulk, Tony and Thor try and contain the enormous mantis-like creatures that serve no bigger purpose than destruction.

“Hey guys,” Clint calls over comms, “SHIELD found the lunatic that made these things. We wanna handle it?”

Natasha looks at him and Steve looks at Tony. It’s Tony that responds, “Cap, you and Widow take care of that. Barton, I need you on the roof. Clench up.”

As Tony slowly makes his rapid descend, Steve calls out his name and the faceplate opens up to a curious but impatient face, “Cap?”

Steve can hear the SHIELD helicopter in the distance and he switches his shield from right arm to left, “Don't let the insects leave Manhattan,” He trails off but then fixes Tony with an authoritative glare despite knowing that it’ll be moot, “And don't do something stupid.”

The Iron Man armour salutes mockingly but Tony’s faceplate is sill up and Steve can see something akin to fond on his face “Aye, Aye.”

He’s nothing but a glowing blip in the sky and Steve ignores Natasha’s sly smirk as he hops into the helicopter behind her and they make their way into the middle of nowhere to cuff some sixty-year-old man that was creating experiments in his garage.

“This is a disgrace,” They hear Clint say when they show him their felon over the Quinjet’s HUD, “I bled because of _this_ guy?”

Steve wholly agrees with the sentiment, although as a once skinny, half-dead kid from Brooklyn, he knows he shouldn’t, “We good down there?”

Thor’s response is jovial and Steve relaxes as Natasha pulls up the feed from Jarvis, well aware of Thor’s idea of ‘good’ “We are all well Captain. I must say that this was a battle well fought.”

Clint snorts, “Thor, bud, you say all our battles were battles well fought. Even the ones where we get hurt.”

Steve feels the beginnings of a smile start to form at the comfortable, familiar sort of bickering that has slowly integrated into his life. The smile falls flat when Natasha, still watching Jarvis’ feed from beside him, slowly speaks in a voice that cannot be described as anything but bone-chilling, “Stark, that building is going to collapse.”

He takes great care to stop himself from shoving Natasha over to get eyes on the screen projected in the Hellicarrier. He only briefly reads the diagnostics of the structurally deteriorating building before focusing on the Iron Man suit’s trajectory, straight towards the building that is moments away from collapse.

Tony’s voice filters through their comms and something painful tugs in Steve’s chest, “I'm reading life signs.”

Natasha sounds frustrated as her fingers fly across the keyboard with precise but hasty clicks, “A dog. Iron Man, there is one life form and it's a dog.”

“Got it. I’ll be in and out.”

And they’ve danced this dance many times before. This dance started with missiles and wormholes and worked its way towards flying with abandon in front of guns and crashing into magic barriers. They’ve danced the dance of Tony’s recklessness and running headfirst into danger and Steve has almost gotten used to the way his heart stops beating for a moment and his lungs seize unnaturally for a split second and his knees nearly give out.

They’ve danced this dance often enough for Steve to wait for the euphoric whoop that is accompanied by Tony’s inevitable victory, because Tony Stark is larger than life and stronger than death and he’s too stubborn to leave before fixing the world he carries on his shoulder.

And they’ve danced this dance so many times that it doesn’t quite resonate to Steve when the building – fourteen stories of heavy rock and marble – crashes down like a house of cards and there is no euphoric sound of victory or blaze of red and gold and life anywhere in sight.

Because Tony Stark is life and life is not meant for death. Life has no place in death’s orbit.

And so nothing makes sense to Steve until the world erupts a split second after the building falls and there’s a loud roar that is the Hulk and Natasha is spitting expletives through the comms and the Hellicarrier is moving faster than it should and Steve’s vision goes white because he’s sure his asthma is back and his asthma isn’t supposed to be back because the serum cured it and _Tony can’t die because Tony wasn't meant for death because he was so alive._

And the pounding in his head and the ringing in his ears don't go away until he hears the cough of a man that means way too much in this life and a hoarse but present, “I'm okay, I'm okay. Ease up on the cavalry, I’m all good.”

The ride to SHIELD takes a lifetime longer than it should and Steve should be suspicious of the way none of the nurses or agents, including Hill and Fury, stand in his way of getting to the med area where Tony is supposed to be resting but nothing is really processing because his head is just screaming _Tony Tony Tony._

His hasty paces stutter to a stop in front of the glass walls that separate him and Tony and he feels the cold start to seep out of his bones and the silence filter into noise when he sees Tony sitting up on the bed, a golden dog snoozing at his feet and the room covered in bright blue holograms that surround him.

His eyes burn bright under the lights and his hands move in the air with quick precise movements; breaking apart the holograms and putting them back together, shaping and moulding and creating something better because that’s what Tony is – a creator – and Steve loves him so goddamn much and his legs give out under the weight of the revelation.

And it should be obvious that he fell in love with Tony. Tony, who builds robots like children, who builds AIs that have minds and souls. Tony, who breaks apart machines only to build them up better. Tony, who gifted him with sleep; who builds weapons for Natasha and bows for Clint until his eyes cannot keep open.

Steve Rogers falls in love with Tony Stark one creation at a time; falls in love with the kindness, compassion, and absolute generosity that shines through the pieces of metal, the lines of code, the shards of glass.

Steve Rogers falls in love with Tony one creation at a time but he’s afraid and unsure and all things in between to take one step forward because Tony is his best friend and he doesn’t want to risk losing it all to three words and the possibility of something more when he already has more of Tony than most do.

So really, it happens by accident.

He falls asleep in Tony’s lab, on the couch that he’s taken to sketching on more times than he can count, so much that his blanket is thrown over the edge and a table with his pencils and colours are tucked into the corner. He’s sketching the curve of DUM-E’s head when the familiar whirring of Tony’s tools and the rhythmic conversation with Jarvis lulls him to sleep.

When he wakes up, it’s to warm brown eyes, golden flecks shining in a dance between confusion and hope and it’s only when he sits up and reorients himself that he sees his sketchbook clutched tightly in Tony’s hands, noting with dull panic that progressively increases that Tony’s flipped to a page of himself in the lab, working on the reactor.

And he notes, with mind-numbing panic, that Tony must have seen the other pages – the ones that make up the rest of the book – of Steve’s drawings of Tony; Tony in the morning, Tony during movie nights, Tony in his three-piece suit or in ratty sweatpants. There is love in every line and curve, love that a blind man can't miss and Steve braces himself for the imminent rejection, the pain of losing the one person that means almost everything.

“Steve, this-” Tony starts and his voice, soft and slow, jolts something in Steve that he’s decided was better off unbothered and the words tumble out of their own accord after careful precaution to keep them locked in.

“I’m sorry. I didn't plan on you finding out. It's just – I just – I really can't help it, the way I feel and if it makes you uncomfortable I can stop coming here and – or I can leave and stay at SHIELD, but I really hope that we can stay friends because you mean a lot to me Tony and I need you in my life even if it – mmph.”

Tony’s lips are warm and soft but demanding and bold and Steve’s brain short-circuits for a split second because _Tony’s kissing him_ and nothing makes sense and he freezes for a split second too long, enough for Tony to pull away with erratic hesitant movements. His face is flushed and lips wet and eyes bright and it takes Steve a moment to fully understand the words tumbling out of his mouth.

“-orry, Sorry. I thought – I thought that was what you meant when you said feelings and I kind of assumed because – wishful thinking I guess. Can we just forget this happened and-”

This time, it's Steve that surges forward and captures Tony’s lips, partly because he’s getting addicted and partly because he doesn’t know how to properly articulate his words to express the amount he feels for Tony and kissing him has to suffice.

It's all tongues and teeth and the kind of clashing and coming together that is so familiar and he doesn’t know how much time has passed until one of them pulls away and Steve opens his eyes and feels Tony’s hair through his fingers and his shirt bunched under Tony’s fists and he leans forward to rest his head on Tony’s and mirrors his smile.

“I love you,” he whispers into the small distance.

Tony surges up and this time, the kiss is chaste and soft and speaks words of ‘ _love you too’_ before it's gone and Tony, with bright eyes, auburn and gold and everything in between, smiles a smile that Steve will be content seeing every day for the rest of his life and says, “I know.”

Steve Rogers has decades worth of grief etched into his still-thawing heart and loss tattooed on his forehead but Tony Stark barged into his world with eyes that were life and hands that were creation and built and fixed and moved until his heart was thawed and the grief was gone and the loss didn't hurt.

As long as he has Tony Stark, with eyes as bright as life and hands as miraculous as creation, Steve Rogers knows that everything will be alright in this world.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Tony Stark kept the dog. Tony let Steve name her, for obvious reasons. Steve named her Auburn, for obvious reasons.


End file.
